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Now Where’s my Pantsuit?

Photo by Mara Fryer

Photo by Mara Fryer

Photo by Mara Fryer

Teegan Saunders

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I have always been one of the oldest people in my grade and because of this people tend to ask me about how much freedom I received in my old age. Being 18 comes with the ability to gamble or get a tattoo, and to my friends these things seem like the most adult things in the world. I can understand this in some ways because gambling can be dangerous and tattoos are on your body for all eternity.  However, I can vouch that my newfound freedom has done nothing to enhance my adulthood.

Unfortunately, turning 18 does not come with the immediate ability to understand taxes or how to vote. Things like good decision-making skills or reliable emotional stability continue to evade me; eventually this leads to things like face-planting in gravel or offending every person with common sense in the vicinity.

Just the other day I was contemplating the chance of successfully throwing a half full can of soda into the recycling bin from a room away. I probably should have realized the liquid inside the can was able to spill, and it’s safe to say I had to spend some time wiping up the trail of carbonated liquid.

It’s things like this that assure me turning 18 has not completely flipped my personality. It sounds silly but part of me was expecting to wake up on my 18th birthday wearing a full pantsuit with a chart next to me discussing the rise and fall of stock prices. It’s unrealistic for sure, but then I’ve always had an active imagination when it comes to the future. I don’t know if I was disappointed or relieved to find myself the exact same person who had gone to sleep that night. Obviously, there were some changes, such as my parents giving me more trust and responsibility when it comes to where I go and what time I come home. I have discretion for who I hang out with and how I spend my free time.  But this wasn’t a huge change since my parents have always been more go with the flow and less helicopter hovering.

This has taught me that attaching growth to age doesn’t always work. I can confirm that 13-year-old me is vastly different from 18-year-old me but that’s a huge chunk of time for growth and development. It’s good to recognize the responsibility that I gain by turning 18, but expecting myself to become an adult just because of a number change is impossible. I could be 95 and still cackling about some immature joke or losing my iPhone 105 in my denture drawer.

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Now Where’s my Pantsuit?